


Grip

by lawofavgs



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-01 23:53:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6541894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lawofavgs/pseuds/lawofavgs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But you have it. You have everything. So hold on to it. Use two hands, and never let go."</p>
<p>She's angry, because he was wrong. She's angry, because he was right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grip

She spends her nights staring at the ceiling, angry at a sleep that's just out of her reach.

It doesn't matter if she's up early, if she works long hours, if she pushes herself until she's weary straight to her bones. Once her head hits that pillow, a part of her brain kicks to life, whirs and spins and refuses to be ignored.

Sometimes she thinks about what she's lost. Nelson and Murdoch is closed, Foggy is around but a million miles away (not that she blames him, his new job seems stressful), and Matt...

Matt is the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

She considers it willful ignorance, not connecting the dots on her own. She was too close to the situation and can't be blamed for not seeing what was right under her nose. She's pissed off that he waited so long to tell her and she's pissed off that he has one hand holding on to some semblance of a normal life (with her, maybe?), while the other hand clings desperately to the life of the Daredevil, bearing the city's burden on his shoulders like the good Catholic boy he is. So she steps back, walks away from him for her own sake.

It kicks _his_ words back in her face, replayed with a tone of disgust that wasn't there the first time.

"But you have it. You have everything. So hold on to it. Use two hands, and never let go."

She's angry, because he was wrong. She's angry, because he was right.

She acknowledges what the sentiment of his words were relaying: only those held most dear to you are capable of inflicting real emotional pain, the kind that can eat away at you. There is, however, something inherently wrong about acting like the pain is okay. Like it's a trade-off: get the closeness and affection and love, endure the white-hot flash of hurt that comes along with it.

There's a difference between having the ability to hurt someone, and actually doing it.

She knows Matt never meant to hurt her intentionally. He didn't wake up every morning, stretch, and ponder ways to make her upset, ways to break her. The problem was that he didn't think of her at all, didn't factor her into his extra-curricular activities or think of what his absence or his deception would do to her.

She doesn't fault herself for putting distance between them, doesn't feel guilty for not trying harder and accepting the pain just because a million years ago a man with a colorful, bruised face and a black ball cap told her to hold on to it. She does, however, feel angry. She's angry that the face she sees when she thinks about someone being close enough to hurt her isn't Matt's.

It's irrational, defying any sane logic that she comes up with in an attempt to quiet her brain down. Months have gone by without any contact. She sees his handiwork all over the city, assumes one day the papers will declare him dead (again, for real this time). She tries to force herself not to care, and yet, she's still awake.

***

When she manages to track him down (thanks to a PI at Foggy’s firm that accepts whisky as payment), it's not for a heart-to-heart, or for barely passable black coffee at a greasy diner. She needs back-up, she convinces herself, and Frank is the man for the job.

She pictures asking Matt - Daredevil - and can actually hear the lecture he would give her word for word. Too dangerous. Not smart. Stop putting yourself in harm's way. Not going to let you do this.

If she can manage to not get the door slammed in her face, she thinks Frank will help. He'll know that she would take the meeting in some dark, sketchy alley with or without his assistance. He won't try to put her in a bubble and keep her safe from the shit they all live in day in and day out in Hell's Kitchen.

She knocks, hears the heavy thunk of his boots and the sound of a gun cocking (typical Frank), and tries not to let her breath catch in her throat as the door opens a few inches and she's in front of him for the first time in a goddamn lifetime. He looks at her, hard, and she thinks maybe he's going to give in and let her slip inside.

The slamming of the door sends a wave of air over her face and a chill of ice down her spine.

"Frank, please just...just open up. I need your help. I'm looking into a story and my source wants to meet alone. I just need someone to watch my back in case shit hits the fan. I need...you."

She can hear the rasp of his breathing, but no movement to re-open the door. She sighs, just about to leave when suddenly, the door is open and he's granted her visual access to his own fortress of solitude, littered with the tools of his trade and empty food cans. He's already getting locked and loaded, brushing his way past her and down the hallway without so much as a word.

***

Much to Karen's surprise, the meeting with her source goes off without a hitch. He doesn't try to kill her and no one tries to kill him and everyone can go home satisfied and in one piece. It dawns on her that Frank has yet to say a word to her.

"I didn't mean what I said," she starts as she drives them back to the four walls and a ceiling he calls home. "That night, in the woods. I was upset and I just wanted it to be over."

Silence.

"I didn't even thank you for saving me. Again. I don't think I had ever been so happy to hear 70s funk music before in my life. That was smart."

Was he even still breathing?

"Things have been going well at the Bulletin. It really feels like I'm doing a job I'm meant for."

Clearly anxious rambling wasn't doing the trick.

"Frank, please. Just say something."

Finally, finally, he opens his mouth, "What do you want from me?"

She sighs, adjusting her hands on the wheel awkwardly and focusing on the road ahead. "Nothing."

***

By the time she drops Frank off and gets back home, midnight has already come and gone. She drops onto her bed after forcing herself into pajamas. But despite the fatigue, her brain works overtime to keep her from sleep. Suddenly she's back in the diner and Frank's talking about bringing the pain and she gets it now, more than ever.

Karen tosses and turns until she hears something, right outside her door. Grabbing her .380, she moves as quietly to the entrance as she can and glances through the peephole. On the other side is Frank, pacing back and forth, rubbing his knuckles before lifting his hand to knock, stopping, and repeating the process. Before he has the chance to bolt, she unlocks her door and throws it open, standing in front of him. Wordlessly, she lets him in, putting her gun back in its usual spot, then turning to face him with crossed arms. She won't be the first to speak.

“Shouldn’t have opened the door,” his voice cuts through the silence, deep and rough.

“Are you freaking kidding me?” she feels like rage bubble up in her chest, fighting to get out. “You need to come with an instruction manual. ‘Frank Castle for Dummies’. You disappear for months, you don’t say a word when I find you, you come to my apartment then chastise me for letting you in? How is any of that normal?”

“Never said I was normal. Far from it, in case you haven’t noticed.”

She’s going to hit him. She’s going to pull back her fist and throw it right at his stupid nose, probably ineffectively.

“Why did you come here?”

She watches his jaw clench briefly, his eyes observing the rest of her apartment: her couch, her picture frames, her dresser, never looking directly at her.

“You need to be more careful. All those articles you're writing, you’ve gotta be making your fair share of enemies,” he finally replies, still more interested in checking the dark corners of her place than making eye contact.

“The stories I’m writing about need to be out there. There are bad people who have hidden in the shadows for too long and...wait, you’ve read my articles?”

His only acknowledgement is a grunt as he stalks over to the window, checking the lock, nodding when the security measure meets his standards.

“What does _he_ think of your crusade to name names and put yourself in danger?”

_(“Does he?”_

_“Who?”_

_“C’mon, let’s not do that.”)_

She doesn’t even bother asking Frank to clarify this time.

“Don’t know. I don’t see him much anymore,” her answer is curt in an effort to stop his questioning where it starts. But since it’s Frank and he has this pathological need to get inside a person to know their every thought, he pushes on.

“Guess you didn’t listen to my advice, hm?”

“Maybe he’s not the one I want to hold on to.”

She blames the fatigue, the obvious sleep deprivation she’s suffering from. Maybe it’s just his unnerving powers of observation that pull the words, the near-confession from inside her soul. She almost slaps her hand over her mouth in an effort to hide the sentiment and take back the words, like a child who uttered a bad word. It’s too late now anyways, and she sees him stiffen and glance towards the exit. Probably mentally calculating how long it would take to bolt out the door.

She makes is easy for him, easy for her. “Look, it’s late, I really need to get some sleep.”

“Page,” his voice is gravel against sandpaper and damn it, it makes her stomach flutter, just a little, “your first instinct was right, to be done with me.”

Now it’s Karen's turn to avoid eye contact, choosing an invisible spot on his black jacket to focus on. She feels her head shake back and forth while words bubble up out of her chest.

“Make up you mind,” her voice is eerily calm and quiet, “you tell me to hold on to the person that is close enough to hurt me, but balk when that person is you. If you don’t feel the same, fine, just go.”

Karen turns, waits for the sound of his boots across her floor, for the telltale creak of her door opening. She hears the ‘clomp, clomp clomp’ of his footsteps, but nearly jumps out of her skin when his sigh is close enough to catch the strands of her hair.

“Maybe because I don’t wanna hurt you. You know what I am, what I do. I can’t change.”

“I don’t recall asking you to change.” Well, except outside that tool shed, sort of, but that was forever ago.

A gasp involuntarily escapes her lips as his fingers skim gently over the skin on the back of her neck, down the line of her back. 

“I can’t offer much,” the words brush against her hair, causing a shiver of pleasure straight down to her core.

“I don’t need much.”

“But you deserve it.”

His hands are on her waist now, his breath ragged with restraint.

Time to hold on with both hands.

She spins quickly enough to almost catch him off guard (almost, because he’s Frank Castle and probably hasn’t been off his guard in the past million lifetimes) and grabs his face, pulling him in for a searing kiss. He doesn’t resist and he doesn’t hesitate, lips parting and tongue brushing against hers. She moans softly, and he pulls her impossibly closer in response.

“Frank,” she sighs as he moves his attention to her jaw, neck, throat. Blindly, Karen pulls him backwards in the general direction of her bed. She can’t give him time to think about this and change his mind, decide this is a bad idea and leave her cold and alone.

She drops onto the bed once she feels the back of her knees hit the sheets, pulling him down on top of her. He catches his weight with one forearm easily, using his free hand to pull her sleep shirt up and over her head. Wasting no time, he returns his mouth to her bare skin, traveling down her collarbone, dragging his tongue down and around her nipple. With a gasp, Karen grabs his hair, dark contrasted against her pale fingers.

Suddenly, she feels his hand skim down, down, down, barely ghosting over her center before rubbing circles over her clothed thigh.

“Frank, please, please.”

“Please, what?” he whispers hotly against her flesh.

“Take off my pants, touch me,” she moans back, writhing under him, pulling at his shirt to feel his skin on hers, finally succeeding in getting it over his head.

His grin is predatory as he slides her PJ pants down, laughing as she kicks them off the rest of the way. He doesn’t tease anymore, dragging his tongue over her clit, soft then hard. It doesn’t take much before she’s damn near shouting his name, especially once he curls two fingers inside of her, driven by the sounds he was pulling from her. Just the sight of him between her legs drives her crazy, and it isn’t long before her thighs are shaking and she’s coming against his mouth.

Kissing his way back up her body, Karen blindly grasps at her nightstand drawer, fumbling for a condom. He reaches forward, helping her out and grabbing the foil in his fingers. She manages to undo his belt and unbutton his pants, letting him push the offending clothing down his legs and off the bed. Suddenly, he’s got the condom on and his lips are back against hers as he pushes in slowly, groaning into her mouth at the sensation. It’s perfect, like a stupid Harlequin romance novel and she wraps her arms around his back tightly.

He’s murmuring her name over and over in her ear, moving in and out at an increasing pace and pulling one of her legs over his hip, and he's thumbing at her already-sensitive clit and suddenly she’s coming again, contracting around him. With a shift of his hips, he’s thrusting into her like a desperate man and he falls apart shortly thereafter.

After discarding the condom in her bedside trash, Frank pulls her tightly into his arms, still trying to catch his breath. She can feel him shake his head slightly, his cheek brushing against her forehead.

“We’re both idiots, you know.”

Karen smirks against his bare chest, grabs his side and holds on.

Then finally, blissfully, she falls asleep.


End file.
